November 26—­3 P.M., sailed.  Vast and beautiful harbor.  Land all about for hours.  Tangariwa, the mountain that “has the same shape from every point of view.”  That is the common belief in Auckland.  And so it has —­from every point of view except thirteen.  Perfect summer weather.  Large school of whales in the distance.  Nothing could be daintier than the puffs of vapor they spout up, when seen against the pink glory of the sinking sun, or against the dark mass of an island reposing in the deep blue shadow of a storm cloud . . . .  Great Barrier rock standing up out of the sea away to the left.  Sometime ago a ship hit it full speed in a fog—­20 miles out of her course—­140 lives lost; the captain committed suicide without waiting a moment.  He knew that, whether he was to blame or not, the company owning the vessel would discharge him and make a devotion—­to—­passengers’ safety advertisement out of it, and his chance to make a livelihood would be permanently gone.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

Let us not be too particular.  It is better to have old second-hand diamonds than none at all. 
                                  —­Pudd’nhead Wilson’s New Calendar.

November 27.  To-day we reached Gisborne, and anchored in a big bay; there was a heavy sea on, so we remained on board.

We were a mile from shore; a little steam-tug put out from the land; she was an object of thrilling interest; she would climb to the summit of a billow, reel drunkenly there a moment, dim and gray in the driving storm of spindrift, then make a plunge like a diver and remain out of sight until one had given her up, then up she would dart again, on a steep slant toward the sky, shedding Niagaras of water from her forecastle—­and this she kept up, all the way out to us.  She brought twenty-five passengers in her stomach—­men and women mainly a traveling dramatic company.  In sight on deck were the crew, in sou’westers, yellow waterproof canvas suits, and boots to the thigh.  The deck was never quiet for a moment, and seldom nearer level than a ladder, and noble were the seas which leapt aboard and went flooding aft.  We rove a long line to the yard-arm, hung a most primitive basketchair to it and swung it out into the spacious air of heaven, and there it swayed, pendulum-fashion, waiting for its chance—­then down it shot, skillfully aimed, and was grabbed by the two men on the forecastle.  A young fellow belonging to our crew was in the chair, to be a protection to the lady-comers.  At once a couple of ladies appeared from below, took seats in his lap, we hoisted them into the sky, waited a moment till the roll of the ship brought them in overhead, then we lowered suddenly away, and seized the chair as it struck the deck.  We took the twenty-five aboard, and delivered twenty-five into the tug—­among them several aged ladies, and one blind one—­and all without accident.  It was a fine piece of work.